


deafening perceptions you have of me

by thanatopis



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanatopis/pseuds/thanatopis
Summary: Dick and Jason keep dancing around each other, never quite giving in or giving too much, and Dick is tired.





	

For those either lucky or unlucky enough to catch a glimpse of Nightwing swinging between skyscrapers or hurdling over rooftops, there seems to be something almost dejected about the usually cheerful, yet snarky vigilante.

It’s nothing that Nightwing necessarily says; he’s still pleasant and charmingly courteous as ever to those who deserve it, but the petty criminals who’ve either had previous run-ins, or simply know him through word of mouth, start noticing when their bruises have bruises.

Nightwing is… _meaner_ than usual. His punches carry a heavier weight, almost like it’s personal. The chatty bird doesn’t talk much when he’s kicking ass; it makes the men and women who gossip in the dank alley ways of Bludhaven swallow down their trepidation, makes them glimpse up at roof ledges with caution, their curiosity almost morbid when looking for that agile yet unmistakable silhouette cutting across the horizon.

The older ones—the ones with impressive criminal backgrounds—are wearier of Nightwing than the younger, cockier crowds who think they’ll never serve hard time. They laugh, jeer, and tease because they believe nothing could be as worse than running into the big bat, but there’s truth in what the middle-aged man in charge of supervising the cocaine shipment says one foggy night.

“If you take the _Bat_ out of the equation, everyone thinks _Hood_ is the guy you need to watch for—” the man takes a long drag from his cigarette, scratching at his salt and pepper beard lazily with his thumb—“but I think differently.”

The old man holds the attention of everyone in hearing distance. They’re captivated; the scene reminiscent of when some of them were kids telling ghost stories around a camp fire. It’s also rare that the old man ever talks, and whenever he starts speaking, be about football or how corrupt the politicians are, it’s hard not to listen.

“When the kid’s completely quiet—when he’s _pissed,_ and uses his body to express it—he reminds me most of that damned demon Bat.”

The man finishes his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a gradual billow above his head. He watches for patterns before he tosses the butt carelessly onto the ground. His expression is thoughtful as he murmurs, “I pity the poor bastard who pissed him off, but I pity _us_ more, gentlemen.”

* * *

 

Dick enters his apartment sluggishly, bones aching, his whole body screaming for the comfort and solace of a hot shower. It’s like being down at the docks, with the questionable, greenish film that rocks right on top of the water somehow manages to give Dick that same sticky, gross feeling all over his skin.

He is days away from busting the drug operation down at the docks before the goods move onto bigger venues, like Gotham. Dick’s been patient gathering the necessary evidence he needs to put these guys away for at least fifteen years, but he’s been having his own kind of withdrawals as of late.

Despite his lack of wings, Dick belongs in the air.

The detective work is rewarding when all the pieces finally slot together, but even when he became the crime fighting boy wonder, it hadn’t been what attracted Dick to the job initially. He’d been addicted to the action—to the _thrill_ of it all.

It had been a game to Dick, and while he’d obviously matured into his role and saw the importance of being a vigilante, it still takes a mental and emotional toll on him to be physically grounded when responsibility calls it of him.

It sure as hell doesn’t help matters that his last encounter with Jason is still fresh like a wound, lurking around the dark corners of Dick’s mind and haunting him.

Jason seems to be a constant source of pain, frustration, and elation for Dick, wrapped up into a man that, on days, rivals Bruce as the most complicated and difficult person Dick knows.

He repeatedly wonders why he continues to do this same old dance with Jason when it seems to get them nowhere in the end.

(Oh, but he knows why. Deep down.)

Dick showers, standing under the spray for an indulgent amount of time until his skin starts to prune. Water bill be damned, he deserves it.

For a moment, Dick thinks about the last time Jason was in his shower with him; how his lips had chased the rivulets of water across Dick’s skin, his teeth and tongue worshiping as he lowered onto his knees and slowly took Dick into his mouth without breaking eye contact.

Dick makes a suffering thing of a sound, pushing the memory far back when he starts to feel arousal rushing up and down his spine, pooling low in his gut. It feels like he’s losing in some way if he gives into the urge to touch himself, and Dick doesn’t want to feel like it mattered—that _they_ mattered when Jason has such an easy time convincing Dick of the same.

Dick shuts the water off with a sigh and dries his skin with a rough towel that’s starting to smell like mildew. He needs to do the laundry; he’s running out of clean underwear and his hamper is practically overflowing—not counting all the clothes laying on a heap on his floor.

He falls into bed—literally falls—and passes out after wrapping himself into a makeshift blanket burrito with thoughts of wind rushing through his hair and the glowing skyline of Gotham.

In his dreams, Dick is younger and blissfully ignorant about a lot of things, but he doesn’t seem to care.

They’re simpler times, the red, green, and yellow, and sometimes, Dick just needs to remember.

* * *

 

It feels like only minuets have passed since Dick closed his eyes.

His phone rings, a catchy pop song that’s been stuck in his head for the last month, and Dick practically jumps out of his skin, body tensing, waiting for the threat to attack until he realizes he’s not in his suit or on the street. He blinks dazedly, rising on his elbow as he reaches for his cellphone with clumsy fingers. He doesn’t think to look at the caller ID when he answers the phone, and immediately regrets that decision when the familiar baritone of Jason Todd’s husky laugh greets his ear.

“Dickie, baby, you answered. That’s good,” Jason murmurs. He sounds distracted and there’s subtle sound of music picking up in his receiver, but predictably, that’s not what Dick focuses on.

Jason called him _baby_. The word spoken like a lazy caress along Dick’s spine, making his entire body erupt in tingles and shivers.

He instinctively pulls the blanket a little bit tighter around his body, shifting his eyes to the side as he checks the time.

“Jason? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Dick asks, perking with dreadful anticipation. He’s already rising from the warm spot he made in his bed, searching for his suit wherever he dumped it on the floor. He expects the worst—it’s the only reason Jason would call him so late.

Or so he thinks.

“Hang up the cape, batboy, there’s no one who needs you tonight,” Jason husks. “But then again…that’s not entirely true.”

There’s something wistful in his tone that makes Dick pause as his brow rises in question. Jason’s words are mildly slurred, and Dick can hear the heavy clunk of a glass hitting a hard surface, the sharp click of a swallow…

“Still there, Dickie?” Jason chuckles, teasing. “You’re so quiet…I can hear you breathing.”

Dick gulps down the sudden lump that forms inside his throat, suddenly feeling off kilter and exposed despite the dark that shrouds him. He rakes a hand slowly through his hair and exhales heavily.

Dick sounds apprehensive and anxious when he says, “You’re drunk.”

Jason hums, sounding faintly amused. “Mm, getting there.”

As if to demonstrate, Dick can hear Jason knock back another glass of whatever he’s been drowning his troubles in; hears him swallow heavily and the burning hiss that follows afterwards.

Dick slowly walks back to his bed and collapses down onto the edge of it. There’s a relief in not carrying all the weight of his body, of letting something else do it for him.

He feels…oddly shaken. Abrupt late-night calls are not something he and Jason do often. It feels too telling—too needy—and if they’ve ever communicated anything strongly about what lies between them, it’s that they’ll never need each other.

The long bouts of silence in between stilted conversation seem to say far more than they ever could, and the dark of Dick’s apartment just makes it even more mystical, like a dream.

Dick gathers the courage to say, “Why are you calling me?”

Jason huffs like the question offends him

“Wouldn’t you like to know, golden boy?” Jason taunts. “It’s definitely not because I like the sound of your dumb voice and it’s been weeks since I last heard it. It’s not the fear that I’ll somehow forget what you sound like…I’d never be so lucky.”

Dick’s throat constricts and the inside of his esophagus burns like a son of a bitch. He has to clear it lest the burn work its way to his eyes.

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick breathes.

Jason sighs softly, like that’s all he wanted—for Dick to just say his name.

“It’s not because I’m at this fucking dive bar in the middle of goddamn nowhere—lonely as hell—thinking about the last time I fucked you and how you’re able to make me feel things other than bitterness and rage. And sometimes, I can’t stand myself because I’m always managing to fuck shit up whether I mean to or not. And I’m starting to realize that I don’t know how to be happy—I never did—and you might be the closest I’ve ever gotten to it, and that scares the _hell_ out of me, Dickie. You _terrify_ me.”

Dick mouth parts for words he can’t seem to find as he leans forward on the edge of his bed, like somehow that’ll bring him closer to Jason, wherever he is.

He’s overwhelmed and flustered, feeling heat bleed into his cheeks, down his neck, and pool at the tops of his shoulders. Dick’s yearning for Jason is almost unbearable then, but what he _can_ voice seems inadequate for what Jason deserves.

Dick has never been good at communicating his feelings. The words always manage to fall from his tongue in ways he doesn’t mean, twisting his intentions or under valuing them. Dick has always expressed his feelings with his body, and it pains him that he can’t just reach out and touch Jason, show him how much of it is the same—that he’s not alone in this.

“Fuck,” Jason curses, and he sounds absolutely miserable. “This is so fucking _pathetic_.”

Before Dick can even utter a word, the line clicks dead.

His entire body goes cold with the sound.

Dick immediately checks his phone’s log, hoping to call Jason right back, but his heart plummets when there’s no number to call back.

* * *

 

Dick finds out from gossip on the streets when the Red Hood is back in town.

It’s been two weeks since Jason’s drunken phone call, and there’s been nothing but radio silence on his end ever since. It’s not surprising, but it still manages to hurt nonetheless.

Sometimes, Dick wonders if he simply didn’t just dream the whole thing. That maybe it was his subconscious creating such elaborate concepts because of his growing need to hear from Jason, but the call data on his phone keeps Dick straight. It doesn’t stop Dick from settling into one of his moods. He’s noticing they’re becoming more frequent the older he gets, and is rudely reminded of Bruce. Dick hates how he keeps finding more and more similarities between him and his mentor.

The mood shift is subtle, but everyone takes notices and actively avoids pushing that invisible button that might set him off.

The past two weeks has had Dick making rookie mistakes that Batman would’ve benched him for years ago as Robin. He was almost stabbed— _twice_. He almost missed his landing point when chasing two of Penguin’s cronies. It’s an understatement to say Dick has had a few off days.

Jason’s words infest his thinking and thought process, and it frustrates Dick more than anything else that Jason’s good enough at what he does not to be found unless he wants too, and obviously, he has no desire to see Dick.

Dick concentrates that irritation in finding Jason, managing to hunt him down onto a secluded roof in Gotham after a long chase.

The weather is almost pleasant as a breeze from the Gotham bay rolls in and ruffles Jason’s short hair. The hood rests under Jason’s arm, cigarette between his lips as he stands precariously near the edge, looking like he’s contemplating the advantages and disadvantages of jumping off rather than have this conversation.

Each step that brings Dick closer to Jason has his anger rising.

 _Two weeks_. **_Two weeks_** _and literally nothing from you, no way of contacting you, no way of getting in touch. What the hell, Jason?_

When he finally reaches Jason, Dick snags a rough hand into the back of his leather jacket and spins him around with the power of his bruised fury. Jason doesn’t even resist; he goes easily, chuckling coldly under his breath. Seeing Jason’s face—the lack of warmth in his eyes, completely closed to him—and the cruel twist of his mouth as he grins at Dick feels like a punch in the gut.

In his mind, Jason has already decided how this night is going to end.

Dick almost panics with the terror of it.

 _No, no, no, please no_ —

“Well look who came running,” Jason taunts, biting edge to his words and it takes a special talent not to wince. “What is it Dickie, that keeps you coming back? I know the sex is good, but that’s _all it is_.” Jason emphasizes, eyes glinting cruelly like the sharp edge of a knife aiming for the ribs. “Is my cock just _that_ fucking good or is it just you wanting to keep the relations within the family? Does fucking your little brother make you hot, Dickie? Want me to start calling you ‘big brother’ when your pounding my ass into the mattress?” Jason asks crudely callous, taking his cigarette from between his lips and blowing a hot billow of smoke onto Dick’s face.

Dick stiffens, but doesn’t give Jason the reaction that he wants. He expected this; Jason has a knack for pushing people away after getting particularly close, but damn if it still doesn’t sting. He makes sure his voice is strong and sturdy before he even thinks of saying his next words.

“Stop it,” Dick demands, shaking Jason once as if that might dislodge whatever has Jason in self-destruct mode. “Jason Todd, you’re an idiot if you _honestly_ think that this thing between us is just sex—and I happen to think you’re smart as hell, so just…stop, _please_.”

Dick is not above begging. Not for Jason.

Jason seems to realize this too as his eyes flash with a mix of conflicting emotions. He sighs like the jig is up and something unseen but felt deflates within him. Jason’s mouth pinches in displeasure before his eyes shift to the side, and it’s only then that Dick notices how utterly tired Jason looks. There are bags under his eyes and his face looks ashen, like he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in god knows how long.

Dick just wants to take care of him. He _aches_ for the chance—for the closeness.

“Come back to the ‘haven with me,” Dick blurts, pleading, before he knows what he’s doing. “Just—let me take care of you, Jason.” Dick bites his lip in indecision before he throws caution to the wind and steps forward to cradle Jason’s face in both his hands, making the younger man look at him as his thumbs brush his cheekbones affectionately.

“What you said to me that night…it wasn’t fucking pathetic, Jason,” Dick begins, swallowing nervously. “I’m not good at this shit either, Jason—honestly, you’re probably better at it than me, but you know I--you have to know it's the same for me, right?" Dick laughs shakily.

Baring his heart has never been so utterly terrifying. It's a wonder how normal people are able to do it at all.

Dick can’t help but smile when one of the corners of Jason’s mouth quirks, and he finds there’s nothing cruel in the easy fondness of it. “I know what I want too, and I want this—I want _you_.”

Jason’s lips part on sharp inhale, eyes widening in disbelief before he moves them to the side. His cheeks are hot where Dick's hands hold them.

Jason makes a faint noise, scrubbing a hand through his hair that looks like it hasn't been washed in a good long while. Dick will fix that--will care of Jason in every way he might need, even if he thinks hygiene is overrated at the current moment.

“I’m going to fuck this up, Dick. I just know it,” Jason murmurs wretchedly, like he actually believes he doesn’t deserve love—like he can't have something that makes him happy for himself. Jason gingerly removes Dick’s hands from his face and kisses his knuckles adoringly in return. He steps closer and fits his muscular body up against Dick’s, nuzzling into his hair and kissing at his temple.

Dick can’t help but frown at Jason’s previous statement, but allows him this indulgence before he rears back and rises on his toes to kiss at Jason’s forehead tenderly.

“Then we’ll work it out,” Dick whispers, softly kissing Jason’s eyelids, then the bridge of his nose; the arch, the soft pointed button, before finally reaching his lips. “We’ll make this work.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading. kudos and comment if you enjoyed!


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